


if you come knockin' late at night

by leigh57



Category: Justified
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:20:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leigh57/pseuds/leigh57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just one possible post S2 scenario</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you come knockin' late at night

**Author's Note:**

> **a/n:** This is is the result of a prompt from sardonicynic over at LJ. The complete list of prompts is [here](http://leigh57.livejournal.com/139488.html).
> 
> The title and cut text are from Bruce Springsteen's "Secret Garden."

She’s waiting for him when he limps back from Harlan.

He holds the doorframe with one hand and his ribs with the other, amusing his Vicodin-fogged brain (Art insisted, said he’d force Raylan to spend the night in the hospital if he wouldn’t take the damn scrip) with the image of how many hands it would take to splint all the places that hurt.

Less amusing is the image of Winona, sitting on the bed with posture most pageant girls would kill for, white fingers clutching the edges of the same black coat she was wearing this morning.

Leaning his head against the cool wood, he thinks about the taste of her toothpaste on his tongue, freshly mixed with a stiff shot of, _Holy fuck. I’m gonna be a father._

The look on her face reminds him, again, that sometimes you can’t measure elapsed time with clocks.

He’s dizzy.

He should probably say something.

“Raylan, come lie down before you fall over.” She stands up and pulls the covers back. Her ankle is doing that nervous back and forth twisty dance it does when she’s pissed off.

He wants to argue, defend himself, prove that he was right. It was no big deal. He can take this bullshit and more.

But if he stays vertical much longer he’s gonna throw up, so he holds his breath to power through the three strides to the bed and sinks down on his back, one foot still on the floor. “Thank you,” he breathes out, shutting his eyes for a second so the room won’t swirl.

“You need anything before I go?” she asks.

“Don’t think so.” He drags the second leg onto the bed, wishing he could _will_ the boots off his feet.

She’s clearly not gonna take them off for him.

Not tonight.

“There’s water and a bagel on the table. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Winona.”

“What?” Her shoulders are angled toward the door.

“You talked to Art.” He clears his throat. His spit tastes like dirt. “You’re the reason the cavalry showed up. The reason I didn’t take a bullet between the eyes.”

“Correction, _Raylan_.” The last time she said his name with that much venom they were still married. “I’m the reason you didn’t take a bullet between the eyes _today_.” She shakes her head, jaw jutting, and although she’s looking in the general direction of his face, her green eyes never land on his. “Get some sleep.”

He knows it’s coming, but the slam of the door jolts him anyway.

In the quiet that fills the small room once she’s gone, Raylan stares at the ceiling for a while, until the weight of Vicodin and failure forces his eyes shut.

 _If Winona hadn’t gone to Art . . ._

 _If Art hadn’t gone against all his better instincts . . ._

As he swims in circles through drug-infested dreams, he hears Loretta’s trembling voice.

 _I want him here to tell me._

************

The sun glares him into full consciousness at 7:34.

He’s reaching for the Vicodin when he stops, closes his fingers into a fist, and gets up to find the Aleve instead. He swallows three in one gulp while he dials Winona with a punch of his left thumb.

“What, Raylan? Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Can I take you to breakfast?”

He can hear her breathing in the pause. “Why?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

“That’d be a first.”

Damn, she’s still pissed. There’s water rushing in the background, squeak of a faucet. Under any other circumstances, he’d say, _That’s not true_ , because it isn’t, but he just needs to get her-

“What’d I say?”

“Huh?”

“That you’ve been thinking about. What’d I say?”

“Winona, could you please-” He squints at the back of his chair, hopes the jeans tossed there are clean. “Just let me take you to breakfast? We’ll go to that new place I saw you lookin’ at last week. The one with the burgundy cloth napkins and fancy croissants.”

He holds his breath. His bruised ribs protest.

“Pick me up in an hour. And wear a clean shirt. You can-”

“I can what?”

“I bought you a new one. It’s in the top drawer. Wear that.” She disconnects the call before he can blink.

************

After his shower (gritted teeth and muttered-under-his-breath creative profanity as water and soap sting past sliced and battered flesh), plastic wrap crinkles in his fingers as he pulls out the deep blue cotton shirt.

Raylan shuts his eyes as his achy hands fumble the buttons.

In his mind, he feels the deft touch of Winona’s softer, swifter fingers, smells her perfume as she leans in to kiss his neck, flirty laughter bubbling.

He hopes he’s imagining the future, not reliving the past.


End file.
